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one to the other of us dubiously.
    Then she said reluctantly, “I suppose that can be arranged, too, if it’s absolutely necessary. I’ll check.”
    “You check,” I said. I hauled out the heavy Magnum revolver. “Here’s the gun. Keep it safe for me. Him, too.”
    “How long? We do have other business to attend to besides yours, Mr. Helm.” She hesitated, but went on before I could answer: “Incidentally, my name is Charlotte Devlin. In case you have to ask for me, or about me or something.”
    Her tone was still far from gracious. I realized that she disapproved of me not only because my lousy little errand was beneath her dignity, but also as a matter of principle. Well, our agency isn’t the government’s pride and joy, exactly. Even the C.I.A. boys, much as they’re criticized in some quarters, are popularity kids compared to us. We’re only consulted, as a rule, when people find themselves stuck with something they can’t handle—or don’t want to handle because it stinks too badly. In between the times they need us, they’d like to pretend we don’t exist.
    “Hello, Charlotte,” I said. “Excuse me, I mean Miss Devlin. I won’t be long. I’ve got a kind of hunch I want to check out; I’ll be right back to take care of him properly. Just tell me where.”
    She told me. The driver never turned his head; maybe he disapproved of me, too. The girl got into the rear seat with her prisoner—well, my prisoner—and the sedan moved smoothly away from the curb.
    I went back to the old station wagon and told Willy to take me back to the motel. You had to say this for his driving: it was consistent. I was happy to get out of the ancient heap intact. A blare of horns behind me, as I crossed the sidewalk, told me that Willy had taken off in his usual never-look-behind fashion. There was no accompanying crunch of metal. Maybe he was lucky, or somebody was.
    I entered the motel grounds. It was a rambling hostelry clinging to a hillside, its different levels served by two intersecting lanes, or drives. The one at which Willy had deposited me was practically a tunnel running up between the buildings, dark and narrow. He could, of course, have dropped me around the corner at the office, under the lights, but I suppose if he had, he wouldn’t have been Willy. Or perhaps he had some motive other than pure meanness for sending me up this gloomy passageway.
    I slipped my hand into the pocket that still held the .38
    Special. As I climbed the slope towards the better-lighted cross-drive above, something moved in the shadows ahead. I could make out three figures struggling. Two were apparently ganging up on the third, much smaller than either of them.
    A girl’s voice gasped: “Let me go! Oh, don’t, you’re hurting… Ahhhh!”
    Her breathless little whimper of pain was followed by the sound of a blow. I saw the smallest of the shadowy figures fall as I pulled out my revolver and started warily to the rescue, looking around for signs of an ambush. Ladies in distress aren’t taken at face value in my business, not by any agent concerned about his mission or his life.

5
    It was a simple rescue as rescues go. I just stalked up there cautiously, displaying the gun and making some restrained noises indicating that I disapproved of what was going on. The two men, who had grabbed the fallen girl by the arms and were starting to drag her away between them, looked around guiltily. Seeing me, they released her and ran. I waited until they’d disappeared around the corner of the building and a little longer.
    Nothing moved. The girl just crouched where she’d been dropped. I could make out that she had rather long hair, which was a point in her favor according to my personal scoring system. On the other hand, she was wearing some kind of a pants outfit, which counted a couple of points against her, unless she could produce a valid excuse like a horse or a pair of skis. I went up to her, holding the gun ready.
    “All